…featured a co-star performance by James, who decided the cart was clearly for peasants and he would be traveling freestyle. Picture a tiny human comet, orbiting me like a caffeinated satellite, narrowly avoiding retiree shin bones and industrial-sized condiment displays.

With every pass, I muttered “Stay close,” like some defeated woodland spirit who haunts the meat aisle. He’d giggle. I’d grit. He’d sprint. I’d lunge. The elderly folks smiled like they were watching a feel-good Disney montage. Meanwhile, I was fighting for my will to keep breathing through my nose while calculating how many grapes I’d have to feed him later just to restore karmic balance.

And yet—I was being silently judged to be a great parent! Because clearly, this scene of chaos was intentional. I must be behind this laughter and freedom, right? A curator of whimsy.

And you know what stuck with me? The other day, some elegant older woman told me how joyful he was—and how lucky I must be, as if I had summoned peace and toddler compliance through sheer will. That moment? A fluke. A blip on the radar of chaos. That particular day the stars aligned, snacks were packed, and no one had spilled applesauce in a shoe. She told me what a joyful child James was, as if I had bottled that happiness in my womb and now exude it like some maternal Glade plug-in.

Then she pivoted. Hard. Told me how she almost threw out another mom and child from a store because—gasp—the toddler dared to emote in public. You know, with feelings. Wild stuff. And there she was, prepared to call in a Code: Emotional. Because clearly if a child is crying, it’s not an expression of need or overstimulation—it’s a disciplinary emergency only a well-heeled senior stranger can solve with sharp glances and misplaced nostalgia.

So today, all those sweet old smiles? They felt like… conditional approval coupons. Only redeemable while your child is being “adorably chaotic” but not “functionally distressed.”

No one saw the real finale of our Sam’s Club adventure: the car seat cage match, a.k.a. Rear Seat Royal Rumble. After tasting sweet, unbridled freedom and racing the aisles like a caffeinated cheetah, James refused to surrender to safety restraints. There were flails, kicks, a rogue shoe, and my glasses slid down my face like they, too, had given up. At one point I whispered, “We don’t hit Mama,” while praying no neighbor caught me wrestling what looked like a furious lawn gnome into a car seat. His demand? To ride in the trunk, which he declared his rightful kingdom. I declined—because legality—and was rewarded with a dramatic sobfest that could’ve earned him a daytime Emmy.

The message? Toddlers must either be charming sprites offering whimsy to aisle 7, or invisible. Otherwise, society demands you hit the eject button on their entire personhood until they can file taxes and say “I’m fine” when they’re not. #ToddlersBeWildin